


you're (what's) wrong

by coyotekillah



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Teen Angst, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotekillah/pseuds/coyotekillah
Summary: Yeah, he wishes.—quick pseudo-smut that's been sitting in my docs





	you're (what's) wrong

Stan’s pupils are blown in the lowlight. He smiles, very automatically. It’s a habit of his. In any instance of uncertainty, big or small, fish hooks appear in the corners of his mouth; he is always overcompensating, always oblivious as to how he comes across. Kyle has never met another person so readily charming without realizing the fact. Manipulative people use their charm as a tool. Stan’s, however, is a byproduct of his personality.

Kyle is different. His mother shops for his clothes at the secondhand store, and will do so until he turns sixteen. He prefers baggy things as to hide his silhouette. It’s not that he considers himself _unattractive,_ so much as he hates being _seen._ His ego is self-made. So long as he isn’t attempting good fashion, he can’t be scorned for his best efforts.

Stan’s tongue pokes from between his teeth. It’s very pink. Dark brows furrow, and he shifts. (Away? Is he conscious of Kyle’s staring? He’s so observant, and yet he never seems to catch his friend in the act.)

“This is stupid.” He’s got a lovely voice. Scratchy, masculine, distinctly teenaged. “Skip.”

Kyle’s skinny shoulders bob up and down. Frankly, he doesn’t care what they watch, so long as he remains privy to the line of Stan’s jaw.

“How about…” Stan pauses the movie, stretches his legs. “Split?”

Kyle breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. His heart thumps against his ribs like a croquet mallet. “Sure.” His voice comes out small, thin, and hopeful.

Is he overthinking things? Overthinking everything? Does Stan read into Kyle’s pursed lips, his glassy eyes? Brown. They’re big and brown and exactly what Stan is used to from girls, probably, tittering gorgeous blessed _girls._ Stan once mentioned that he liked the way they spoke. Soft-like. Different, he’d said, from guys. (From Kyle. He is abrasive, lacking volume control.)

Stan clicks through various streaming services. Netflix. Hulu. Putlocker, lastly.

Kyle feels his lungs melt into toxic waste.

They do settle on Split, which is a very mediocre movie. Nothing sparkly or new. He and Stan are pressed against one another, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip; when Stan breathes, he invades Kyle’s personal space, and it’s cloying. Sweeter than honeycomb.

Kyle studies his own hands. They aren’t very different from Stan’s. Only longer, and paler. His are manicured whereas Stan’s nail beds crack at the seams.

“Hey.” Stan’s voice goes gravelly. He’s telling a secret. Something he’s taking very seriously, even if it’s undeserving of the fact. “So, Annie? She’s into you.”

“Into me,” echoes Kyle. His eyes burn.

“Yeah. No kidding, either.” Stan doesn’t sound pleased. “I thought I’d tell you.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does.”

“I don’t like blondes.” That’s the truth. Dark hair is easier on the eyes. “Besides, she’s _always_ into some guy, you know? She’s one of those.”

“It’s a date,” says Stan, although he senses a losing battle. He fidgets.

“So?” It comes out harsher than Kyle intends, but he doesn’t mind. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend, right now.”

“You’ve _never_ had a girlfriend.”

“Nichole,” spits Kyle. He’s suddenly very angry.

Stan is, too. He pushes Kyle’s laptop off his legs. “In the sixth grade, maybe.”

Kyle has to pinch his own side. To think. “She _liked_ me. I liked her, too.”

Stan, as usual, backs off. He’s not a coward, but he’s rarely one to pick a fight if he can help it. Kyle likes that. It’s smart. “I’m only trying to _understand,_ I guess.” A pause. “I wish I was as independent as you.”

“You are.”

“I miss her.”

Back to this, then. Kyle’s spine tingles. “She’s no good for you.”

Stan opens his mouth, but nothing happens. So pretty. So handsome, and so kind.

Kyle rolls over. He knows how this goes, knows that Stan will poke and prod and paw until he’s allowed the intimacy he craves. It’s been like this for a while. Months. Kyle will never say a word, even when Stan picks at his waistband, pushes his knee between his legs.

Five minutes. Ten. Stan’s hands are broad, and they’re cool against Kyle’s stomach, his hips.

Fifteen. Twenty. Chapped lips and butterfly kisses.

Only when things begin to slow does Kyle roll over, shaky, and Stan pulls him in. They kiss. Sloppy, how Stan likes, because Kyle would give anything for this boy: his smile, his voice, and his eyes. They hold hands. Squeeze one another’s waist, like it’s supposed to make things okay. (It does.)

Usually, it stops. They roll off of one another and wait until the world refocuses. Kyle wishes he could touch himself, and Stan stares at the ceiling, seemingly coolheaded despite what could only be inner turmoil. (Dad isn’t homophobic, just stupid. That’s what he’d say. Kyle couldn’t believe he’d say the word.)

Instead, the heel of Stan’s palm presses at his groin. It’s hesitant, gradual, so that Kyle could shift a certain way and make his feelings clear: no, stop. Another time. Maybe never.

Instead, he leans into his touch, _wishes_ he had the brains to _stop,_ his dad is downstairs, they can’t. Can’t.

Stan is momentarily stumped. His breath hitches, just behind Kyle’s left ear. After building meager courage, he cups the bulge of Kyle’s underwear; there’s a tentative squeeze.

Kyle’s motor function is shot. All he can do is _whine,_ suddenly, back into Stan’s hips (he’s hard, Kyle is making him hard) and hope to God, help him, God, that he’s going to be enough.

He remembers that Stan’s hands are broader than his. That he’s been gawking at the outline of his dick through his gym shorts since middle school, wondering how he’d taste. An oral fixation is a funny thing.

“You’re cute,” Stan mumbles. Something Kyle would find offensive in any other context -- he’s taller than Stan, long-faced -- but doesn’t mind while in another person’s grasp. Cute is good. Cute means he’s doing something right, even if all he’s done is squirm and whimper and whine. Inexperienced. A baby, a puppy.

No words are exchanged as Stan peels Kyle’s underwear off his hips, licks his hand and pumps slow strokes. It’s nice. Kyle expected fireworks, but is not disappointed by pop rocks. His hips twitch and jerk as circumstance dictates; Stan mouths at the nape of his neck, and he finds himself breaking into a smile.

“I wish you’d let me fuck you,” mumbles Stan. His words seem to go up in smoke. “Just like this, with your parents downstairs.”

Kyle nod-nods his head. Stan wouldn’t, even with the go-ahead, but they’re allowed to pretend. (Does Stan even _get it?_ That he’s ruining Kyle’s life with every sound?)

His breathing grows choppy. Disjointed. “You’d feel so good, baby. Wouldn’t you? Keeping tight, just for me?”

Another nod. He moans, not out of necessity, but in encouragement.

And then, Stan stops.

Kyle doesn’t realize how desperate he is for Stan’s touch until it’s gone. Doesn’t say a word -- just turns, ogles his best friend with his damning eyes and a hapless expression.

Stan seems pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t -- I didn’t know if you liked it, and --”

“Fine,” blurts Kyle, and he hikes up his underwear like the _blushing virgin schoolgirl worthless --_ all of that, that’s what he is. Down to his _panties,_ while Stan’s belt is still buckled. Why is he the weak one? The hopeful one? Why is Stan still pressed against his thigh, hard and wanting and waiting? Hurting?

There’s no telling. He rolls away, hikes the blankets over his own shoulders, and waits for Stan to get the picture. _You aren’t wanted here._

There is silence. Stan sits up, but doesn’t _leave. S_ niffles.

And, because he’d give his heart and soul and hell for Stanley Marsh, Kyle pulls him into a proper hug. _You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s okay._

Still, he’d like to cum.


End file.
